


Peace and Dignity

by takinoborudesu



Category: Historical RPF, Original Work, Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27274129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takinoborudesu/pseuds/takinoborudesu
Summary: “The Grand Jurors of the Circuit Court of Rockingham County do present that JAMES WESTON, on or about the 11Th day of June 1950, did unlawfully and feloniously sexually know another male person, namely, PETER STRAUSS, in violation of Section 19-98 of the Code of Virginia, against the PEACE AND DIGNITY of the Commonwealth of Virginia.”
Relationships: James Weston / Peter Strauss





	1. Bad Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based on several real court cases against LGBTQ couples in the State of Virginia, all in the 1950s and 1960s during the Cold War and the Lavender Scare.

**1\. BAD MEMORIES**

_November 7 th, 2016_

__

Frigid globs of rainwater splattered atop several boxes full of _‘goddamn shit’_ stacked in Martha Strauss’s arms. Scrawled on each box, in dried-out black sharpie, blurred and blotched by droplets of water, was the name of Martha’s late father: PETER STRAUSS.

Martha picked her way down the mud-slick slope toward her pickup truck, then dumped the stack of containers in the back. She lifted up the battered corner of a wet tarp and pushed the boxes underneath to keep their contents dry. Her work here was almost complete. There was only one box left.

Tucking back a short lock of graying blond hair, Martha turned and made her way back up the slippery hill, past the CVS, where Peter Strauss’s trailer lay in the mud on the Exeter family’s land. She was all the way up the rickety metal steps when she heard a woman’s voice call out, “Martha!”

Martha turned. It was Deedee Exeter, poking her head out from the cracked-open doorway of her father’s carpeting business.

“Hello, Deedee,” she greeted. She’d meant to sound cheery, as much as possible in the circumstances, but instead her voice cracked and emerged weary-sounding. “I thought you weren’t in ‘till three.”

“I’m right on the dot,” said Deedee, checking her watch. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”

“It sure does,” said Martha gravely.

There was a beat of silence, awkward if not for the pattering rain. Then Deedee said, “Need a hand?” She glanced at the loaded truck. “Or are you almost done?”

“Almost,” said Martha.

“Need an umbrella?”

“Oh, no thank you. Just one more box and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Alright,” said Deedee gently, as Martha turned to open the trailer door. “Take your time, Martha.”

\---

The inside of Peter Strauss’s trailer was mostly emptied of its’ usual clutter; all that remained now were a saggy pile of trash bags, a lingering smell of cigarette smoke, and a single cardboard box sitting unopened on the mud-trodden linoleum floor.

Taped atop the flaps was a Post-It note with the only written instruction from her father on how to dispose of his possessions. He had owned no personal vehicle, no land, and no significant amount of money, and therefore never went through the trouble of drawing up a formal will. In his gruff, curt matter, he’d left Martha the burden of getting rid of his “goddamn shit,” cancelling rent for his tiny trailer home, and finally the choice of what to do with the contents of this box in front of her.

With some difficulty, Martha sat herself down on an unmuddied spot on the floor, taking out and putting on her reading glasses. She peeled off the note.

 _“These are just bad memories,”_ it read, in Pete’s shaky handwriting. _“Do what you want with them.”_

Martha replaced the Post-It. Then she slid the box into a patch of grayish light streaming from the window.

Pete always sat in his rocking chair by that window, which framed a decent view of the distant Shenandoah mountains, and smoked his cigarettes in silence. Just until a few days ago, the soft afternoon light would have shone on his dull blue eyes while he rocked and smoked and ignored the efforts of his adult child to spark some meaningful conversation about his muddled past. Now the light fell on this box, resting where Pete once rocked.

It probably contained the only answers she would ever get for all the questions her father had never deigned to address.

Martha had planned on doing this at home. But the afternoon’s unexpected rain was pouring harder and harder, gusting and smacking on the windowpane in increasingly thick sheets. Perhaps she should wait inside the trailer for the sky to clear.

And besides… Deedee had said to take her time.

Martha left the note on the floor and, with effort, settled herself into a cross-legged seat on the floor. When she lifted the flaps of the old box, she fully expected to find letters or photos or other memorabilia… but what immediately hit her was the herbal whiff of dried dandelions.

The odor of cigarette smoke was pushed away by the soft bitter-sweetness gently blooming in the air as Martha reached into the box and took out the mysterious bunches of dandelions, revealing the photos and letters she’d thought to find. Beneath there were even more dandelions, dried and pressed onto yellowed cards of paper.

It was quite odd. Though Martha knew that Pete’s estranged parents were florists, she’d never judged her jaded, cynical father as the type to dry and press flowers and secret them away in some hidden box. There was apparently more to Pete than she’d ever known.

Swallowing and blinking away the sudden wetness now flooding her blue eyes, Martha reached in and drew out the first photo lying on top: a black and white image of Pete in his teens, probably around the age he was dishonorably discharged from the Air Force.

The backdrop of the photo seemed to be the lawn of Madison College, now renamed ‘James Madison University.’ The sunny lawn was lushly decorated with ribbons and flowers. In the center stood her father smiling wide, youthful and carefree with a head full of blond hair.

Beside Pete was a taller boy whom Martha did not recognize.

Flipping the photo over, she saw a brief caption scrawled on the back:

_Maypole dance, 1950_

_Peter Strauss_

_and James Weston._

__


	2. The Maypole Dance

**3\. THE MAYPOLE DANCE**

_May 1 st, 1950_

__

“PETER! Stop slouching! Look at the camera!”

Peter Strauss scowled. His brother snickered as their mother snatched him by a tuft of blond hair and yanked her youngest son closer into the frame.

The blue-eyed family of five stood on the lawn of Madison College, surrounded by their floral creations: garlands of spring blossoms, racks of thick flower crown, elaborate wreathes of fresh roses and baby’s breath, and— John Strauss Sr.’s proudest commission of the ear thus far— a large chariot lined with a lush border of flowers secured with ribbons and bows. The floral work, intricate and artful, made the roses appear to burst in bloom from the chariot itself.

“On three,” said the photographer, moving into position and adjusting some fancy doo-hickey on his camera. “One… two…”

The ensuing FLASH! made Peter scowl even more. He hated photos. Worst of all, he hated being in photographs surrounded by these stupid flowers. The images would inevitably end up in the Daily News Record to resurface at school and reinforce his nickname: ‘Flower Boy’—a label wanted by no fifteen-year-old.

Most infuriatingly, Peter’s good-for-nothing brothers had somehow managed to dodge this association with their father’s trade. Maybe because there weren’t bright blond like Peter and their mother. Or maybe because they were louder and bolder and taller. In any case, ‘Flower Boy’ was a bane of Peter’s existence that he had to battle on his own, because his brothers definitely only liked to make things worse.

“Hey Pete,” started Henry, as soon as the boys were released by their parents. “Bet you’ll end up alone again.”

“Shut up,” Peter snapped.

“Like last year,” said John, as Henry cackled, no doubt reminiscing last year’s May Day disaster.

“I said _shut up,”_ Peter repeated, gritting his teeth. His brothers started cajoling with laughter and loudly recounting the moment when Peter had stood stranded and alone beneath the Maypole, clutching his own ribbon because no girl wanted to pair up with him.

Peter picked up his pace and stormed off to avoid being made to relive the most cringe-inducing moment of his life. He beelined across the Madison College lawn, passing gaggles of young college women laughing and gossiping and trying out flower crowns from the Strauss Flowers Co. Many of these crowns had been braided by Peter himself this morning, because his parents believed that giving birth to him meant he was fair game as slave labor.

He found what he was looking for— a nice, quiet spot of shade beneath a tree, away from everyone and everything else. Peter plopped himself down on the grass and slumped against the tree trunk, not caring if bark or moss got rubbed on his Sunday best. He loosened his bright-red tie his father made him wear, so it wasn’t choking him, then undid his top-two buttons as he slouched and sighed.

He watched the people on the lawn busying about preparing for May Day’s festivities. His father was perched atop a ladder hanging up garlands of fresh flowers, his mother was helping the May Queen board the lush chariot for a rehearsal of the sorority’s procession, and John and Henry were chatting up some of the Madison College girls who weren’t practicing their maypole dance routine.

The college orchestra was seated at the head of the lawn, setting up and tuning. Meanwhile, some of the early-bird townspeople had started to arrive, unpacking folding chairs and spreading down picnic blankets in the warm sunlight.

The whole world buzzed and whirled around Peter, but for some unknown reason he desired no part in it. All he wanted was to go home and sit on his bed in peace and quiet. Flower dances and girls were dull and annoying, and Peter couldn’t fathom what it was that made John and Henry so eager to prance like idiots around the Madison College girls.

He observed quietly as the young women retreated in preparation for the processional, while a steady stream of onlookers trickled onto the lawn with their children and dogs and picnic baskets.

Then he saw a dinged-up wagon pull up by the lawn.

Peter figured it was rom the rural outskirts of Harrisonburg, maybe Red hill or ‘Cabbagetown.’ The wagon’s doors opened and dumped out a huge family—at least six or seven children—ten its driver rumbled off in search of parking.

Peter stared at the large family now ambling happily across the grass in a chattering pack. Two boys, three girls, and a toddler holding their mother’s hand. All sported hair colors ranging from brown to bright red. Peter didn’t recognize any of them as classmates from the city high school.

Sticking out among the pack with the reddest hair was a tall, lean boy who looked to be about Peter’s own age. He was laughing and joking with his excited family, and wore an old-looking yellowed shirt and plaid tie with sleeves rolled to his elbows. He walked with a buoyant gait, carrying himself with easy confidence. The boy charmed Peter so strongly that he found himself unable to look away.

The handsome red-haired stranger turned and caught Peter staring. He smiled. Peter flushed and averted his eyes, then fumbled for something to do with his hands. He rolled up his own sleeves while internally berating himself for acting so awkward, and hoped to God the stranger wasn’t still trying for eye contact.

“PETE!” he suddenly heard. “Ma, we found him!”

Never had Peter been so grateful to hear his brother’s voices. He clambered to his feet as John and Henry came running over.

“C’mon,” said Henry, grabbing Peter’s arm and dragging him from the sidelines into the crowd. “They’re gonna start soon and we wanna be way up front for the dance.”

Then he followed Peter’s line of sight to the redheaded stranger, whom was now settling down with his big family on the grass. “Buddy from school?”

Peter shook his head.

“Just nobody.”

“Then let’s go,” said Henry, and Peter was whisked away to join in on whatever it was that he was supposed to participate in next.

\---

By the time the stupid May Queen had finally done a lap in Mr. Strauss’s ridiculous chariot, Peter had dozed off in the warm spring sunlight. Henry kicked him awake when his snoring grew too loud. Then his mother passed him a handkerchief for his drool, whisper-shouted a brief lecture on respect, then left Peter alone once more so he could covertly resume snoozing in the sun.

Later when Peter woke again— this time on his own— the orchestra was carrying a lively waltz and the Madison College girls were dancing in a circle around the tallest maypole on the lawn. Small children happily clapped along and squealed at the sight of the young women twirling in airy pastel gowns, like princesses out of a fairy tale. Each dancer held the end of a long streamer affixed to the top of the maypole. They spun and doe-see-doed about, weaving their streamers around and around with each step and turn.

When at last the Maypole was wound to its base, the orchestra finished off the dance with a grand final flourish as the college girls curtsied to the audience’s applause.

Now came the moment Peter had been dreading all morning.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” blared the announcer through her loudspeaker, “we now invite the youth of Harrisonburg to join us in winding our remaining three Maypoles!”

Peter groaned loudly as a flood of children bounced and skipped onto the lawn, while the teen-agers took their time. Many walked in twos, though a good few potential loners could be spotted. Even so…

“I’m not going this time,” he stated resolutely.

John and Henry, already upon their feet, only laughed at their younger brother’s refusal.

“You scared, Pete?” said John, grinning, while Henry started flapping his elbows and making obnoxious “BAWK BAWK” noises in the background. “Scared you’ll be alone again?”

“I’m not going,” Peter reemphasized. He crossed his legs and folded his arms.

His mother reached forward to say something, but his father cut in sharply.

“ _Pete_ ,” he growled, “our family is co-sponsoring this celebration. I want to see _all_ my sons up there.”

When Peter didn’t budge, his father leaned in, as menacingly as possible without making a public scene.

 _“Get up,_ ” he hissed, “and be a _man._ ”

Peter angrily unfolded himself, got up, and strode petulantly away from his parents, ignoring the audience’s stares as he went to the maypole designated for senior-high students. John and Henry had already joined the outer circle, holding streamers and waiting to be paired up by the college volunteers organizing the dance. Meanwhile, the inner circle was starting to fill with girls.

“Oh, perfect!” chirped the volunteer whom spotted Peter. “You’ll be our last male on this pole.”

Peter took the end of the lavender streamer from her outstretched hand and occupied the remaining spot in the circle of young men. Mostly everyone was already matched with a girl on the corresponding inner ring. There were only four males left partner-less: John and Henry, an older boy from the senior high, and Peter himself.

Peter glanced back at the audience to check if his father was watching. But his father was now enthusiastically engaged in some small talk with Sheriff Richie, Harrisonburg’s police chief. Sheriff Richie and his wife were regulars at Mrs. Strauss’s fabric shop.

“Remember! Gentlemen step clockwise, ladies step counterclockwise!” said the announcer, over the excited chatter of children. “Ladies, we are passing out flower crows made by the Madison College Teacher’s Society for the Arts and Crafts! Please put them on, and the dance will begin shortly!”

The teen-agers oohed and aahed as the college volunteers distributed their complementary flower crows— which were thinner and cheaper than the ornate crowns braided by the Strauss family, noted Peter, with a glimmer of pride.

Lured by the promise of flower crowns, three more girls whom Peter recognized from their school hurried over to join the dance. Two hesitated before greeting John and Henry, and the third side-eyed Peter. Then she reluctantly settled with the boy behind him. As the new girls took up their streamers with their partners, Peter scanned the crowd, desperately hoping a fourth girl was on her way.

But nobody else was coming.

 _This can’t be happening!_ he thought, panicking now. Not again! There had to be someone else! His luck couldn’t be _that_ bad!

Maybe this was his fault; if he’d just turned up sooner, he’d probably have a partner by now. He searched the audience again with pleading blue eyes, aware of how pathetic he must look. But he would give anything to end this repeat of last year’s horror.

And then he accidentally made eye contact with John and Henry… and as soon as they realized happening, their eyes widened like golf balls as they bust into rowdy laughter.

“Alone _again,_ Pete!” yelled John, slapping his knee while Henry honked like a donkey in the back.

Peter’s cheeks flushed with shameful heat, and his fingers went numb. All eyes were on him now. He was the only one on all three community poles without a dance partner.

Not daring to glance at his father, he instead ran a clammy hand through his blond hair and over his face. Oh! Was there something on his face? A dirt smudge of or condiment smear? Was that it?

Then he saw the announcer turn his way— a kindly brunette whose blue eyes widened in pity and concern— and Peter knew what was about to happen as soon as she raised her loudspeaker to her lips.

He wanted to make her stop, but it was too late.

 _“Attention,_ ladies and gentlemen!” she blared, out, while John and Henry howled with laughter at the sight of their little brother’s loser status about to be publicly broadcasted to the entire citizenry of Harrisonburg. “We have a young eligible bachelor here stranded without a dance partner! Are any young ladies out there willing to volunteer?”

By now Peter’s good-for-nothing brothers had doubled over in hysterics, and even their female partners were giggling. _“’Eligible bachelor!’”_ wheezed John, as Henry wiped tears from his eyes. Some of the audience members chuckled too at Peter’s humiliation.

Peter ignored all of them. His expression went blank as he turned away from the announcer, and let the lavender streamer slip from his loosened grasp. It trailed to a rest on the grass. He began to walk away.

But then, in the distance…

… the red-haired boy rose up amidst the audience.

“Wait!” he called. His voice carried over the hubbub.

Peter stopped and watched in shock as the tall stranger excused himself through the crowd, hurried across the lawn, and stopped in front of Peter.

“So you’re the _‘eligible bachelor,’”_ said the red-haired boy, with a wry little smile.

Then he moved past Peter, who spun back to face the rest of the shocked dancers and speechless announcer.

The red-haired boy reached down and picked up Peter’s abandoned streamer. He held it out. The lavender ribbon fluttered in the breeze, an implicit offer suspended between them like a hovering question mark.

Peter reached forth and accepted it.

He watched in a daze as the stranger joined the ladies’ circle and took up his own pale-yellow streamer. As he turned around, Peter finally got a clearheaded look at his partner. The stranger’s auburn hair glowed red-gold in the sunlight, long lashes hiding two warm brown eyes. He stood several inches taller than Peter, with a lean but strong build, his slender forearms visibly muscled below his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He was ridiculously handsome.

Now everyone’s shock began to subside, and the giggles resumed. John and Henry laughed raucously at the prospect of Peter dancing with another male.

“He should wear a flower crown too!” wheezed John. “Someone get him a flower crown!” He motioned toward the red-haired stranger, whom towered awkwardly tall among the other girls like a beanstalk in a flower bed.

 _“Shut up!”_ spat Peter, who’d finally had enough of his stupid brothers.

But the stranger said nothing. Instead he simply bent down and plucked a golden dandelion flower from the grass. He tucked it behind his ear with a big grin.

“How’s this?” he asked.

He looked absolutely adorable, but Peter couldn’t say something like that, so he just stood and gaped in stupefied silence as his idiot brothers howled like wild hyenas.

Meanwhile the poor announcer backed off, unsure how to handle the chaotic sight before her. She swallowed and raised the loudspeaker to her lips.

“Well then, ladies and gentlemen,” she said pleasantly, as if never having seen what just happened, “now that we have all our dancers… let us commence the Seventeenth Annual Harrisonburg Community May Day Dance!”

There was a smattering of applause. Then the Madison College orchestra struck up a brisk tune with chirping flutes and joyous trumpets, and the dancers began to circle their maypoles in step with the music. The majority of the primary school girls skipped cheerfully to the beat, while some of the young boys took off at lightning speed around the maypole and had to be chided by the volunteers to slow down.

Meanwhile the teen-aged dancers on the senior-high maypole stepped gracefully to the music— except for the red-headed stranger. He was the only male cavorting gaily amidst the girls, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world. The sight drew giggles from everyone around him.

Peter was too enthralled to care; his attention was fixed upon the handsome stranger. Each time on passing, their gazes met briefly, the stranger’s brown eyes twinking merrily, Peter’s blue eyes following the redhead around and around the maypole. He found himself enraptured by how the stranger danced and skipped and twirled. So bizarre, and yet so graceful.

Before they knew it, the music had ended, the maypole was wound, and the audience was applauding the conclusion of the dance. The teen-agers all glanced at one another, unsure of whether to bow; when no one did it, they awkwardly scattered and returned to their families on the sidelines. The brunette announcer began closing off the event with thank-yous and acknowledgments.

Peter started forward to speak to the handsome stranger—to thank him, at the very least—but the redhead was already walking away.

 _Wait!_ he wanted to yell. But John’s hand slapping on his back jolted him out of his daze. He was herded back toward his family as his brothers laughed, still making fun of how the Maypole dance had passed. Ignoring them, Peter snuck another glance at the red-haired stranger’s family, all of them now packing up the remainders of their May Day picnic. He had never recalled seeing this family in Harrisonburg before. Would this first sighting also be his last?

“That was a nice boy who danced with you,” said Peter’s mother, while John and Henry told their father how the stranger had stuck a dandelion in his hair. “What’s his name?”

Peter opened his mouth, froze, then shut it. The big redheaded family was now piling into their wagon. He had seconds to make his decision.

“WAIT!” he finally yelled, startling all. He sprinted across the lawn and wove through the dissipating crowds. “HEY! _WAIT!”_

Now within earshot, the stranger turned and watched Peter with mild surprise. Peter slid to halt on the grass, panting and out-of-breath. The stranger’s whole big family was staring at him now as he stopped to catch his breath.

Then the stranger said, “What is it?”

“What’s your name?” asked Peter. “My mother wanted to know,” he added lamely.

The stranger smiled and reached to adjust the dandelion flower still tucked behind his ear.

“James,” he said. “James Weston. You were a real fun dance partner.”

Peter was about to explain that there was nothing ‘fun’ about himself, but James’s mother abruptly cut in.

“You’re one of the Strauss boys, aren’t you?” she said, eyeing Peter with sharp brown eyes from behind spectacles. She was severe-looking woman who wore her dark-brown hair in a tight bun. “I’ve seen you and the other two at Mrs. Strauss’s fabric shop— hello Alice, how are you?” she said to Mrs. Strauss, whom had caught up to her son. Tailing her were John and Henry.

As the two mothers chit-chatted, Peter overhead that Mrs. Weston— Evelyn Weston— taught Sunday School at the Harrisonburg Presbyterian Church, next to his mother’s fabric shop at the downtown Courthouse Square.

“I’ve never seen you at school,” said John to James, sizing up this stranger in a glance. “What grade are you in?”

Peter listened intently, hoping to learn where to find James during the school day.

“I’m sixteen,” answered James, “and… well, my mother manages all of our education.”

“So you’re _homeschooled?”_ blurted Henry loudly. “Well, I’m sixteen, Peter’s fifteen, John’s seventeen, and we go to _normal_ school.”

“’Normal school,’” James repeated, raising an eyebrow. He seemed unfazed. Meanwhile, all of his siblings had grown quiet and were watching their brother with wary looks. Peter shot a glare at his own brothers.

“Yeah,” said Henry. “So do you even know your ABC’s? Can you even read?”

“Can you even _spell?_ ” said John, smirking wide.

“I can,” said James testily, “and your name is spelled J-A-C-K-A-S-S.”

John was so thick that it took him a solid five seconds to comprehend what had just happened. But before he or Henry would retort, their mother swooped in on their conversation and spoke directly to James.

“Darling,” she cooed, “you were so sweet for partnering with Peter today. What kind thing to do. Maybe you boys could be pals!”

“Maybe,” said James, side-eying John and Henry. But then he glanced at Peter and gestured at him. “Or maybe just this one.”

And with that, all of Peter’s frustration at his brothers’ cruelty was cleared away with relief that despite what just happened, James didn’t blame Peter, and even wished to be friends.

Meanwhile, the photographer for the _Daily News Record_ had circled around once more to pester the Strauss family.

“Mr. Strauss!” he exclaimed, interrupting Peter’s father’s conversation with Sheriff Richie. “Congratulations again! What a fantastic display of your trade… simply marvelous craftsmanship… what a wonderful sponsor to the College —"

“— Mr. Allen!” called Peter’s mother. She waved the photographer over to Peter, James, and the loud auburn-haired Weston family. “Let’s have a picture of you two boys. Mr. Allen, if you wouldn’t mind!”

Though Peter once again found himself on the wrong end of a camera, still surrounded by the ribbons and flowers he detested so vehemently… he now willingly and eagerly trotted over to James. They stood side-by-side in the sunlight, and Peter felt a quiet thrill when their arms brushed as James tried to smooth out his second-hand shirt and tie.

He put on a wide smile for Mr. Allen’s camera, and decided that posing for photos wasn’t so bad after all.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

_“You float like a father,_

_In a beautiful world._

_I wish I was special,_

_You’re so very special.”_

\- Radiohead, “Creep”

**3.** **THE DANDELION CROWN**

May 7th, 1950

It was the Sunday after May Day. The emerald-green lawns of the Presbyterian Church courtyard teemed with birdsong and butterflies in the late spring weather as James Weston sat with a few dozen teens in the grass, listening to a Young People’s Bible study lesson being taught by his mother.

All seemed peaceful… but it wasn’t. Because James had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

He glanced over his shoulder at the thick hedges behind him, the at the brick archway on his left, and the trees on his right. There was no sign of any spying intruder. Yet the feeling persisted, the unsettling sense that somebody had their eyes on him.

James turned his attention back to his mother, whom was now reading a long Bible passage aloud. The boring words washed over him as he propped an elbow on his knee and rested his cheek on his palm. It could be worse, he supposed. At least the weather was fair, and his big brother Guppy was inside the church, probably showing off on the piano. Which was alright, because it meant he was nice and far away where James wouldn’t have to deal with his pompous scolding.

Suddenly there was a flutter of movement on his right. James spun around toward the trees—but there was nothing but lush green leaves swaying in the breeze.

“JAMES!”

James whirled around at the sharp sound of his mother’s voice. Everyone else laughed at his deer-in-headlights reaction.

“Are you paying attention?” snarled Mrs. Weston.

James was absolutely not paying attention, but he said, “Yes ma’am.”

Not to be so easily placated, his mother pursed her lips. “Then tell me,” she said, “what happens to the wafers and wine during the Rite of Communion?”

 _They get eaten,_ James wanted to say, but instead he answered, “Trans submarine.”

 _“TRANSUBSTANTIATION!”_ his mother corrected. “And what does that mean?”

“They get turned into the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ.”

“And is everyone allowed to consume the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ?”

James swallowed, unsure if this was a trick question or not.

“No…?” he ventured.

“So who is _not allowed?”_ said his mother.

“Vegetarians?”

His answer earned a wave of muffled laughter. James’s evening now had a whooping in store, but he grinned anyway. Meanwhile his mother glared at all of her students so severely that their snorts quickly died down. Then she gave them the correct answer, which was something about baptism or whatever, and James returned to his business of not paying attention. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to go bike around or play baseball or work on his painting of a frog, or something. Anything but this.

James flipped open his Bible to a piece of scrap paper he was hiding between the pages. He glanced around for something to draw, settled on a dandelion flower, then pulled a pencil stub from his back pocket and started sketching.

He’d just gotten started on the leaves when _suddenly,_ out darted a blond-haired boy from behind those suspicious trees.

James’s eyes bulged out of his sockets. It was Peter Strauss, the remarkable-looking lad whom James had rescued from eligible bachelorhood last Monday. But what was he doing here?!

James cast a furtive glance at his mother. Mrs. Weston was thankfully still reading from the gospel of Matthew and hadn’t noticed the newest member of her class, whom plopped himself down in the grass several yards away from James. Why? Was he just here to listen to Mrs. Weston’s youth sermon? He wasn’t even a Presbyterian Church member! James considered telling Peter to leave, but eventually decided against it. The boy was sitting there quietly, not being disruptive, and not out-of-place. He was the right age, and dressed like the other teen boys— trousers, shirt, and tie. Plus Mrs. Weston hadn’t noticed him. Peter could stay.

James stared very hard at Peter and whistled a birdcall. Peter turned. James emphatically patted the grass at his side. Peter hesitated, looking shy, so James patted harder until Peter began to scoot over.

“Where you spying on us?” he whispered, as Peter settled beside him. Peter looked sheepish, which was sort of lovely.

“A bit,” he whispered back. “Sorry.”

“So you’re a spy, huh? You spy for the Reds?”

“No, for the Feds,” whispered Peter, smiling now, “and I suspect _you’re_ a Red.”

“’Cause of my hair?”

With difficulty Peter contained his snort of laughter, and James cracked a grin. But if their conversation continued aloud, it would draw his mother’s attention to Peter’s unauthorized presence. James picked up his unfinished dandelion sketch and wrote beside it,

_Pass notes so Mother doesn’t hear. Why are you here?_

He handed it to Peter, who took it and peered at the flower drawing before replying in sloppy handwriting,

_I’m bored. Was helping at my mom’s shop and I ran away. You drew this?_

_This place is even boring-er,_ wrote James. _And yes._

_You’re like Michelangelo! I like dandelions._

_You do? And who’s that?_

_He’s ancient and dead and painted a lot,_ wrote Peter. _My dad says dandelions are horrible weeds, but I think they’re as good as the flowers in our store._

_What store?_

_Lakemore Flowers by Martin’s Produce._

James knew of Lakemore Flowers. It wasn’t too far from where he lived, near Red Hill and ‘Cabbagetown,’ and his mother frequently sent him to get groceries from Martin’s Produce. Somehow in all these years since moving to Harrisonburg, he’d never seen Peter around in those familiar areas.

 _One time,_ he wrote, _my neighbor got angry at my cat being in her radish patch and she kicked my cat so I blew a hundred-thousand dandelion seeds into her stupid radishes and they all grew up in three months and she had to pay a weed man to get rid of them._

 _Gee,_ Peter responded, _I like cats too but Dad won’t let us have one. What’s it’s name?_

_Hat._

_His name is Hat?_

_Yes. Because my brother Guppy had a cat named Mittens. He died though._

_The cat or your brother??_

_The cat, unfortunately._

James was about to pass this response to his new friend when Mrs. Weston happened to look his way with her hawk-like black eyes, which sharpened into two furious lasers blasting through her spectacles onto the incriminating note in her son’s hand.

 _“JAMES!”_ she screeched. “STAND UP AND STAY STANDING! AND YOU TOO, YOU— … you… _wait…”_

She beckoned for Peter, who gulped and stood up to move to the front, picking his way through the seated teenagers all staring silently at this blond boy who didn’t belong.

 _“Oooh…,”_ drawled a few voices. Someone snickered quietly.

Pointedly lowering her horn-rimmed spectacles, Mrs. Weston eyed Peter up and down with austere scrutiny.

“you’re the Strass boy from the May Day dance, aren’t you,” she said. “Tell me why you’re here interrupting my class and distracting my son from his study of the Gospel. And speak wisely, because I _will_ be going next door to inform your mother.”

James could practically see the gears whirring in Peter’s head.

“I… um…,” Peter stammered, “ma’am, I heard you talking about, uh, transubstantiation, from Mom’s store, and why, I was, um, curious, because, why, at church—my church, it doesn’t have Bible class for teen-agers, and I just… uh…”

“So you wanted to come,” prodded Mrs. Weston, still somewhat suspicious, “and study the Bible?”

“Yes ma’am!” Peter nodded. “I was curious. And I sat next to James, because, I saw him on May Day, so I was asking him if I could stay, and, uh, listen. Listen to you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Weston nodded slowly as she raised an eyebrow at Peter.

“Only a few minutes here,” she mused, “and you already know more about Communion than my son. _James,”_ she snapped, redirecting her fury to said son still on his feet, “tell me again, what happens during Communion?”

“Trampoline vacation!” said James, with pride.

Mrs. Weston sighed.

“You may stay, young man,” she conceded, “and I hope you might be a good influence on everyone. What is your name?”

“Peter, ma’am.”

“Alright, Peter. Go and sit down.”

Peter turned around and did so.

James flashed him a conspiratorial grin.

\---

After Bible Study, Mrs. Weston went to the Fabric shop and spoke with Mrs. Strauss, who was confused but accepting of the news that her youngest son had developed a sudden interest in the Word of God.

And so it was that Peter found himself officially invited to every Presbyterian Youth Bible Study in the future, as well as every post-study luncheon in the Church’s basement, including today’s. It was a delicious reward for spying on James, the Tall Handsome Dancing Artistic Dandelion Boy.

Peter followed James to the basement where the other teen-agers, young children, and adult parishioners had already begun filling in chairs and lining up for food. The buttery, salty aroma of pastries and lunchmeats filled Peter’s nostrils, and he and James followed the wonderful smells to a long wooden table laden with homemade hors d’oeuvres.

There were trays of deviled eggs, crackers and cheese, and seasonal fruits, and a platter of all kinds of small sandwiches: salami and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, watercress, and chicken salad. There was a salad made with chopped celery, sliced pineapples, and black beans tossed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil. On the end of the table were cookies and cakes iced like blooming flowers, along with a tureen of fruit punch, a pot of coffee, and a jug of sweet iced tea.

Stomach growling, Peter took a paper plate and loaded it with cookies and sandwiches and deviled eggs. He and James each snagged a slice of cake iced with lavender flowers and helped themselves to plenty of fruit punch. After a few awkward minutes of scanning the crowded and stuffy basement for an open table, they both settled on eating outdoors instead.

\---

“I think they ought to change Communion,” a brunette was saying, as James and Peter strolled onto the sunny lawn toward her group of friends. (Peter had hoped to sit alone with James, to perhaps further their friendship, but felt it was too strange of a request.)

“What’s wrong with Communion?” someone asked.

“The name ought to be changed,” said the girl seriously. “It sounds too much like Communism. Someone might think the Church is involved with the Soviets.”

Some of her friends laughed, and some seemed to genuinely consider her point.

“No one’ll think that, Lucy,” chuckled James, sitting down next to her. “Communion was invented before Communism, right? Wait! Peter!”

Peter halted mid-squat while James reached over into the patch of grass directly under him, and plucked a very large dandelion flower from the earth. He presented it to Peter. “You almost squashed it.”

“And now you’ve killed it,” muttered Peter, but he took the flower anyway and sat down.

“That’s true,” James agreed, “but you would’ve sat on it anyway. Keep it, press it in a Bible or something.”

Peter considered it, rolling the thin stem between his fingers. Then he tucked it in his pocket.

Meanwhile, the brunette— Lucy— was still discussing the unfortunate-sounding nomenclature of the Presbyterian Church. “Maybe it’s best that whoever invented Communism should change their name instead of the Church,” she declared. _“They_ ought to change _their_ name.”

“Stalin,” said a chunky boy Peter vaguely recognized from school.

“No, it was Hitler,” said a blonde girl in a yellow dress next to Lucy. “Right, James?” But James’s attention skipped over her when the other boy asked, “Who invented Communion anyway?”

“God,” said James. He stuffed a cookie in his mouth.

“How would you know?” Lucy said. “You weren’t even paying attention at all today, fooling around with Paul, or whatever your name is.”

“I’m Peter,” said Peter.

“Whatever,” said Lucy. “I’m quite sure Jesus invented Communion, not God.”

The yellow-clad blonde next to her spoke again. “Don’t be so harsh,” she chided. “James isn’t wrong, because technically God invented everything, which would mean He invented Communion too.”

James swallowed his food. “Thank you, Ruth,” he beamed.

Peter couldn’t help but notice that Ruth looked very smug upon finally being acknowledged by James. _Too_ smug. For some reason he just didn’t like her face.

Meanwhile James had taken a swig of bright-red fruit punch, some of which missed his mouth and dribbled down his chin and onto the collar of his white shirt. “Oh no!” cried Ruth theatrically as she sprung forth with a napkin. “Look at you, you’ve got a stain now… let me get you sorted…”

Her fingers had just brushed James’s neck when Peter managed to produce a napkin of his own and determinedly maneuvered himself between them. He didn’t know what it was; perhaps he was jealous of James, but he didn’t want Ruth to be with him. “I’ve got it,” Peter muttered, as Ruth made a face and glanced around at the other girls. Ignoring them, Peter scrubbed diligently at James’s shirt collar, but the fruit punch wouldn’t come out. So instead he wiped off James’s clean-shaven neck and chin. His skin was so soft, fair but sun-tanned, and he smelled wonderfully of soap and icing sugar.

“Is it coming off?” inquired James anxiously. He looked adorable when he was nervous. His cheeks were as red as his hair.

“No,” said Ruth, folding her arms across her banana-yellow dress.

James groaned. “Mother’ll kill me!”

“She was already going to kill you,” said the boy unhelpfully.

“Yes, but now she’ll kill me _dead!”_

 _“I_ could get it off,” said Ruth quite loudly, with a toss of her blond curls and a neat smile, “as I’ve taken Home-Ec, you know. Why don’t you let me try?” She leaned forward. “Perhaps he needs a girl’s touch.”

“No, he doesn’t,” snapped Peter, sounding probably more aggressive than necessary. Oh well. “Come on,” he told James, “there’s hot water inside. Let’s try that.”

“Sure,” James said, and climbed to his feet. “Adam! Guard my lunch!”

Adam, the chunky boy from Peter’s school, gave a small salute. “Roger that!”

But as they started back toward the basement entrance, Peter glanced around. Adam had nicked a cookie from James’s plate.

\---

James was enormously relived when the hot water proved enormously effective in battling the stain, which was quickly reduced to a hardly-noticeable tint on his already-yellowed shirt. No one, probably not even Mother, would notice. At least not a first glance.

But then, to James’s annoyance, the basement was abruptly flooded with piano music banged on out-of-tune keys.

Many churchgoers turned their heads to watch with impressed delight, but James only scowled. It was just Guppy, always showing off and hungering for a spotlight. Sometimes Guppy practiced so much that James wished for a Soviet tank to roll into the church and squash his brother’s fingers, except Guppy would probably just spend all day fishing for sympathy from anybody willing to suffer him, and that was as irritating as his flamboyant piano-smashing.

Their mother, however, felt differently. “My eldest, Donald!” she proclaimed, as several girls squealed, _“Guppy!”_

Donald “Guppy” Weston flashed a smile at his audience. His mop of greasy slicked-back brown hair gave him the look of a discount Glenn Miller. One of his fangirls leaned forward with a giggle, a fork in her hand, and fed Guppy a morsel of cake as he continued to abuse the piano. _“Delicious,_ my darling!” boomed Guppy. And then he broke into song: _“Angels we have heard on high! Sweetly singing to the —”_

“It’s _May,_ Guppy!” hollered James over the din. “It’s almost _summer!”_

Some of the dining parishioners turned and stared at James. Mrs. Weston did as well, dark eyes zeroing-in on James, and then she started toward him like a hawk swooping on its prey. James snatched Peter (who was dawdling at the cookie table) and yanked him toward the door.

They bolted up the stairs and didn’t stop until reaching the safety of the lawn, which was only safe because Mrs. Weston did not swat her sons in front of potential female suitors.

“What’s happened now?” asked Lucy, as James and Peter plopped back in their spot son the grass, breathing hard.

“Nothing,” replied James, and turned to Peter. “You _had_ to grab those on your way out?”

Peter revealed the two napkin-wrapped cookies clutched in his hand. “They’re for you,” he explained. He pointed at Adam, who was now playing football with several other boys. “He stole one of yours.” Then he added the cookies to James’s plate.

James squinted at his plate.

“ADAM!” he yelled, getting to his feet while Lucy and Ruth giggled. “Adam! You dirty Commie traitor!”

“How am I a ‘Commie traitor?!’” Adam yelled back.

“’Cause you’re a liar and a thief with no respect for private property!” James intercepted a pass to Adam and ran off with the ball. “Peter! Come on!”

But Peter didn’t budge. Not the athletic type? Oh well. James thought about staying with Peter on the sidelines for today. That was until Adam tackled him into the grass and retook the ball— and James couldn’t let that go— so he got back up, loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and dove full-blast in the game.

“Is he even going to eat?” said Ruth.

Lucy shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Apparently not.” She turned to Peter who was finishing his lunch. “So are you just here for the food? Is that why you swindled Mrs. Weston?”

“No,” said Peter.

“You don’t mean you’re _really_ here for Bible study, do you? Or just to good around with the Weston boy?”

“The _cute_ Weston boy,” added Ruth dreamily, watching James chase the ball, hair gleaming red in the sun and tie flapping in the wind.

Lucy scoffed. “I’ll say, he’s not _awful,_ but I’ve never much fancied the Irish-looking type.”

She and Ruth both then examined Peter, who had drained the last of his fruit punch and now sat alone picking dandelion flowers form the grass and dropping them in a yellow heap at his feet. The two girls watched with distaste while Peter piled up his weeds.

“He’s not bad either,” Lucy whispered to Ruth, “just a bit _off,_ if you know what I mean.”

Ruth nodded, as Peter began to braid his dandelions.

“He’s a bit… queer.”

\---

When James returned, he flopped down like a limp starfish beside his barely-eaten food, damp with sweat and dirtied with grass and mud. “AAGHH!” he groaned. “I’M HUNGRY!”

“Then _eat!”_ said Ruth, laughing.

James sat up. “Good idea,” he agreed, and did just that. He wolfed down two salami sandwiches and then crammed three deviled eggs at once into his mouth. Lucy watched disgustedly as James inhaled the remainder of his lunch with the speed of a high-powered vacuum cleaner on crack. Then he unwrapped the cookies Peter had brought, and nodded at him while still chewing.

“Fanks,” he said, through a mouthful of egg. “Whar ya doing?” He swallowed and wiped his mouth clean.

For Peter had braided a thick rope of dandelion flowers. James watched with fascination as Peter brought the ends together, and with a final long stem, began to tie together the freshly-made flower crown.

“He’s being weird,” said Ruth dismissively. “So, what was the point of cleaning off your collar if you just went and rolled around in the dirt?”

But James ignored her. He quietly sipped his fruit punch, his rapt attention resting on Peter and his nimble, skilled fingers, working the flowers with the firm but delicate touch of an experienced artisan. Blond hair glowing white-gold in the sunlight, Peter carefully tracked his craftwork with bright blue eyes. _Sky-blue,_ thought James. Peter was beautiful when he was so deeply engaged, and James suddenly felt very happy that Peter had come and spied on today’s Bible study. He found himself hoping the boy would come next Sunday as well.

“James?” said Ruth, but her voice seemed to float from a million miles away. James watched Peter tie off the crown, examine it carefully in his hands… and then, he gave it to James.

James looked up at Peter as he took the dandelion crown, and couldn’t help but smile in amazement.

“The one I gave you, it’s in here?” he asked. Peter nodded, so James cautiously lowered it onto his head. It seemed quite thick and study and slid on perfectly over his hair. He grinned, feeling very handsome wearing it, and felt a warm blush rising in his cheeks as his ears burned pink.

“It’s… nice,” he said, still stunned and at a loss for words. “How’d ya do it?”

“My dad’s a florist,” said Peter, and now James remembered his comment about Lakemore Flowers. “We did all the flower crowns for May Day,” he added proudly.

Ruth interjected again. “It’s a lovely crown, but… don’t you think it’ll look better on a gal?”

James cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “You saying I don’t look good?”

“You look good,” said Peter loudly.

“Lemme have it,” said Ruth with a wink, “and you’ll see how good I can look.” Next to her, Lucy giggled.

James hesitated. He wanted to keep the crown for himself, but selfishness just wasn’t part of his nature and he didn’t want to be mean to Ruth. “Alright,” he eventually conceded, and took it off. “Here you go.”

Behind him, out of his field of vision, Peter’s face sunk into an expression of utter betrayal.

Ruth put on Peter’s crown and smiled demurely. Then she struck a pose like a pin-up girl. “How do I look, James Weston?” she purred, batting her eyelashes.

“Uh… your dress is a different shade of yellow,” said James. His artistic self felt bothered by this jarring clash of colors. “So, uh… not quite well?”

Ruth looked offended while Lucy roared with laughter in a very un-ladylike way. Oh well; James had said nothing but the honest truth.

But then he saw Peter get up and start to walk away.

James frowned. Had he done something to offend Peter? Or was it the fault of Ruth or Lucy? He got up and followed Peter across the lawn to a shaded spot beneath a tree, where the blond boy sat down and crossed his arms without looking at James. James sat beside him.

“What’s wrong?” he tried. “You feeling alright?”

Peter shrugged wordlessly.

“It’s something I said?”

Another shrug.

“You don’t like Lucy? Or is it Ruth?”

“I didn’t make it for _her,”_ Peter finally admitted sullenly.

Oh, so it was the dandelion crown. James hadn’t realized how sensitive Peter was about who got to keep his creations. “Uh…” he said, “… do you want me to take it back and you can make one for her? Or you don’t have to if you —"

“You’re not getting it!” exclaimed Peter. “And no!”

“Getting what? Getting the crown back?”

“My God— _no!_ Jesus Christ!”

Sensing Peter’s frustration, James suddenly feared that his new friend would go back to his mother’s shop— that this handsome, talented, sensitive boy would exit his life as soon as he entered it. Perhaps he’d not done enough to actually make Peter feel welcome here, where Peter must feel surrounded by strangers.

He shifted on the grass, fishing for something to say.

“Teach me how to make one,” he tried, after a stretch of silence.

Peter glared and muttered, “So you can make one for her?”

“No, I just thought it’s something we could both do. Since you don’t like sports much.”

“And so what if I don’t like chasing balls?”

“It’s not a _bad_ thing,” clarified James, “and I enjoy other things too, you know. I like painting, for one. I’ve got this great big painting of a frog which I’m almost done with at home, if Mother will let you come over and see it.”

Peter didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a while until James went ahead and plucked some dandelions, and started trying to figure out the secrets of dandelion-crown-making on his own. It did not go well. Son his flower stalks began to droop like limp noodles and his hands smelled strongly of herbal failure. Peter seemed to be ignoring James, but really he was following each attempt with increasing agitation.

“Oh stop,” said Peter eventually. “Give it here.”

With an impish grin, James surrendered his tangle of crumpled yellow flowers to Peter. The two of them gathered some more dandelions so James had enough to follow Peter’s lead.

Peter took two stems to start, and twisted them together.

“Like this,” he said, and began to confidently instruct James in his father’s craft of flower braiding— which he used to hate, deny to his friends, and never discuss at school. But now, between James and himself, it was a point of pride.

Meanwhile, James barely paid much attention to what he was being taught. Mesmerized by Peter’s slender hands and pale skin, James drank in every detail of Peter: his soft, fluffy blond hair (which he felt inexplicably urged to muss up), his small but masculine build, the look of steady concentration in his sky-blue eyes. Everything about Peter was enchanting in a way James had never seen before in his other male buddies, nor even any girls or women. It honestly alarmed himself how strongly he felt.

“Are you listening?” said Peter suddenly.

“Mm-hm. What’s next?”

“You were supposed to wrap this part around these bits…”

Distantly James heard one of the church boys yell out, “JAMES!” They waved the football in the air. “COME BACK!”

“Later!” called James, fumbling with his flowers as he tried to replicate what Peter had demonstrated. He heard the other boys muttering. “Leave them at it,” one said. “That’s just Flower Boy.”

James turned and frowned. “What’d you call him?”

“He’s like a girl, isn’t he? He’s always messing with _flowers_ and ribbons and acting so _queer —"_

“Who cares?” said James loudly. Not so loud as to be overtly aggressive, but enough to make it clear he didn’t agree. The boy got the message, shrugged, and said nothing more.

Meanwhile Peter stared down at his flowers. His cheeks were flushed red. “Sorry about all that,” he mumbled. “They know me from school.”

“Don’t listen to them,” said James, as the other boys went off to start their game. “I think it’s a superb skill you have, and I want to learn it. If you’re Flower Boy, then I’ll be Paint Boy. Except there’s many other things I like too, so I suppose I’ll be Paint-Bike-Fishing-Kickball Boy.”

Peter finally cracked a smile. “That’s too many things.”

“Is it? You should do the same. Pick up another hobby. If you learn to bake bread then you could be Flower-Flour Boy.”

Peter laughed. He had a lovely laugh. “God no.”

“It’s got a nice ring. _‘Watch out! Here comes Flower-Flour Boy!’”_

“That just sounds like you’ve got a stutter!”

“Does it? What about _‘Fl-flower-flower Bubble buh-boy—"_

“Shut-up! Whatever your name is! Paint-Bike-Kick-Fishing-Idiot—”

James laughed. “Kick-fishing? That must be fun! Reel them in, then _DROP KICK_ them back into the water!”

They spent the rest of lunch finishing their flower crowns, exchanging snippets of banter in-between Peter’s instructions and having a good time learning about each other’s lives and families. Whenever he got a chance, James would toss a joke at Peter and hope to score another laugh a musical little sound which he couldn’t get enough of. But then it occurred to him that Peter might be faking his chuckles to be polite. That scared James. He didn’t know why, but he wanted very much for Peter to like him, and to come back next Sunday, and the Sunday after that, and all of the Sundays for the rest of their lives.

\---

Lucy watched as James and the blond boy tied off their weed crowns and placed them on each other’s heads, a bizarre mutual coronation of two fairy princes.

“You’ll never get anywhere with the Weston boy,” she told Ruth frankly.

Ruth glared. “How could you say that?”

“Look at him. He’s _smitten.”_

Ruth took off her own flower crown, which was indeed a different shade of yellow from her dress, and threw it down in the grass.

\---


	4. The Shenandoah Meadows

**4\. THE SHENANDOAH MEADOWS**

May 28th, 1950

After Bible Study on the Sunday of May 21st, Peter was invited by Mrs. Weston to attend the Church’s Pentecost picnic, to be held in the Big Meadows in Shenandoah National Park. So, on the morning of the 28th, he squeezed into the Weston Family’s dinged-up wagon along with the rest of James’s red-headed siblings. Mr. Weston drove, and in the passenger seat sat Mrs. Weston with three-year-old Danny in her lap. Crammed in the second row were Guppy, James, and Peter. Both Guppy and James were very large boys and had to hunch not to bump the roof. James was jammed in the middle seat, on Peter’s left. Every swerve of the wagon on the winding Skyline Drive pressed the boys arm-to-arm and thigh-to-thigh, so they were constantly apologizing to each other and to Guppy (who did not apologizing of his own.)

In the back seats were James’s younger sisters Betty, Maxine, and Janet, all three girls aged between 8 and 11. They’d brought a little dinged-up toy tea set with mismatched teacups, and squeaked excitedly among themselves except when Peter, the blond-haired stranger, glanced over at them.

Mrs. Weston spent most of the trip grilling Peter, whom tried to answer as politely as possible.

“I take it you are enrolled in the city public school?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And you are… 15? What is that in school years?”

“I’m a sophomore, ma’am.”

“A sophomore. Halfway through. Any thoughts on what you’ll be doing after graduation? Military, perhaps?”

Peter had zero interest in joining the military, especially not with the Red storms brewing in China, Korea, and the Soviet Union. Before he could respond, James said, “Guppy and I both want to join the Army next year, when we’re both 18.”

 _“You_ want to go Army, _I’ll_ be a Marine,” said Guppy smugly. “They do all the real fighting—”

“— I don’t want to hear about you,” snapped Mrs. Weston at her sons. “Peter, go on.”

“Uh,” said Peter, “I think I’ll just help out at the flower store. And take over for my dad, since John and Henry won’t want to.”

“No military?” said Guppy. “You’ll still have a draft number, you know. If it’s real fighting you’re scared of, you could join the Air Force, and even get the same benefits and G. I. Bill like the rest of us heavy lifters.”

“Oh shut up, Gupps,” said James. “You aren’t even _in_ yet.”

“Don’t talk to your brother like that!” screeched Mrs. Weston.

“Sorry mother.”

“I’ll think about it,” Peter conceded, not wanting to look weak-kneed in front of the Westons. “It’s just a long time ‘till I graduate.”

“Yes, you’re right,” nodded Mrs. Weston. “There’s plenty of time to decide.”

\---

There was so much delicious food at the Pentecost picnic that it was worth all the introductions and awkward small talk which Peter had to endure between mouthfuls of cake, ice cream, cold chicken wings, pulled-pork sandwiches, apple salad, and potato chips. He ate with James, Lucy, Ruth, and the other Bible Study teens at their own two picnic tables, shaded beneath a cluster of birchwood trees by the Visitor’s Center. Next to them was the children’s table, where the Church’s youngest parishioners sat slurping ice cream and scribbling clumsy rainbows on coloring pages provided by the church.

Some condescending adult had decided that the teenagers would like the same sort of silly entertainment, so another pile of crayons and coloring pages lay untouched in the center of Peter and James’s table.

“This is silly,” said Lucy, glaring at the art supplies. She stood up “I’m going to get more ice cream.”

James, who had finished eating, suddenly took interest in the coloring pages. He picked one out—a black-lined cartoon of Prince Charming on a horse—and fished out a pen from his pocket.

“Don’t tell me you’re really about to color,” said Peter.

“Nah.”

James uncapped the pen and started changing the line-art, giving the Prince ridiculous long lashes and full lips like a transsexual freak, changing his sword into a magic wand and his boots into high heels. Then he added a little Hitler moustache. He and Peter snickered obnoxiously with each malicious edit.

“I’ll color that when you’re done,” one of the boys offered. It was Sam, Ruth’s younger brother.

James handed over the vandalized coloring page. “Color your heart out.”

The boys at the table passed it around, laughing. James reached for another coloring page. Ruth fetched one too, and flipped it over to the blank side. “Have you heard of the House-Tree-Person personality test?” she asked James and Peter, but mostly to James.

Since the red-headed boy was too engrossed in vandalism to take notice, Peter responded, “What’s that?”

“It’s something we learned in psychology class.”

“You take psychology?”

“Yes. Children’s psychology, and Home-Ec, because I want to go to Madison College and become a teacher.”

“Oh.”

“Well, the House-Tree-Person test is where you draw a house, a tree, and a person. Then I look at it and tell you what it means.” Ruth turned to James, would you like to try?”

“Make Peter do it,” answered James, who was busy disfiguring a cartoon wizard.

“Sam,” said Ruth. “Stop coloring that and do the test with me.”

“No way, burger-face,” said Sam.

“Fine. _Peter,”_ Ruth said, sighing and sliding the paper to Peter. “Draw a house, a tree, and a person. You can use whatever colors you want.” But she handed him a purple crayon, the same shade of purple as Ruth’s dress, headband, and bracelet.

Reluctantly Peter took the crayon.

“Where do I draw it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What about the person? Is he inside the house or —"

“It doesn’t matter! Just draw!”

Peter drew as well as he could, which wasn’t very good. He put a stick man inside the house and a fat, ugly tree next to it. He gazed sadly at his completed drawing, and felt that James could have done it much better.

Ruth took Peter’s masterpiece and examined it so seriously that Peter thought she might produce a magnifying glass from within the folds of her purple dress. “Interesting,” she murmured, indicating that wanted to sound smart but actually had no clue what she was doing. “Very interesting.”

“What does it mean?” asked James, who was now watching. He had finished transforming the wizard into an ugly fairy godmother.

“It means,” said Ruth, with a look at James, “that Peter has an inner woman within him. A woman’s place is in the home, so he put himself inside the house, while most males would draw themselves on the outside. So that’s why he likes flowers instead of cars and planes —”

“—I do like cars and planes though,” interjected Peter. He’d loved planes since childhood. “I’ve got a model plane collection.”

“Hah!” said James. “My mother says not to believe in psycho quacks. It’s a whole lot of baloney. Let’s play something else! How ‘bout Truth or Dare?”

“Oh heavens no!” said Ruth. “I’m not getting in trouble like you and your friends always do. Especially not on Pentecost!”

“I’ll play,” said Peter.

“Nice,” said James. He snatched the ugly wizard drawing and slid it across the table to Peter. “Dare ya to give this to one of the adults over there.”

“I thought I’m supposed to pick truth or dare first.”

“Hah. Pick then.”

“Truth.”

“Okay,” said James. “What year was the Eiffel tower built?”

“How am I supposed to know that?!”

“Uh-oh! Guess you’re stuck with the dare.”

James grinned mischievously.

Peter shot him a glare before getting up and moving to the grown-up picnic area. He picked a random man in a gray suit with dark hair and a boney face, and awkwardly dropped the ugly wizard by his plate of food. Behind him, James stifled a snort.

“What’s this?” growled the man. He was not amused.

For a moment Peter froze under the man’s cold glare. But eventually he blurted out, “James Weston drew it.”

Then he sprinted back to James, who was clutching his shirt and cackling. “Hah! His _face!”_

“That was my dad,” said Ruth. Her eyes were as cold as her father’s.

James only laughed, not caring in the slightest. “He probably hates me now! Nice one, Peter! Your turn!”

Peter struggled to come up with revenge dare. Then he glanced at Mrs. Weston, and recalled James fleeing the basement with his mother snapping at his heels. Peter’s lips stretched into a grin, and he pulled James close and whispered the wicked deed into the redhead’s ear.

\---

James stood very still when Peter’s breath tickled his ear, sending warm shivers down his neck and shoulder. Then his mind registered what he’d just been dared to do. “No way,” he said. “She’ll make me walk home. I swear.”

“Oho!” cried one of the boys. It was Cookie-Stealing Adam. “Did James Weston just turn down a dare?”

James spun around. “I don’t want to walk home, that’s all!”

“It’s his mother,” said Ruth, calmly scooping up a spoonful of chocolate pudding. “He won’t do it, obviously.”

“Hah!” giggled Sam. “Come on, James! Do it!”

“Do it,” said Peter.

“Gimme another dare,” said James.

“He’s chickening out!” Adam yelled, slapping the table so hard that Ruth’s pudding cup did a hop and everyone’s drinks sloshed out a little bit. Adam didn’t care. “He’s scared! He’s afraid of his mother! Chicken!”

“I am _not_ afraid of that!” yelled James. Peter started laughing.

“Are too!” hollered Adam. “BAWK BAWK! HURR DURR! SQUEAKY SQUAWKY SQU —”

_“— BOYS!”_

Adam’s face paled when he saw Mrs. Weston towering over him. The unfinished chicken noise lodged in his throat, and all the other teens fell silent. “Keep the noise down!” said Mrs. Weston sharply, putting her hands on her hips. “This is a _church,_ not a bar! No one can hear each other over your racket, and Donald was just about to sing for us. James, be a good example. You’ve just turned seventeen, so act like it! Yes? James? Hello?”

James swallowed. Everybody was watching him; it was now or never. Slowly, he opened his mouth.

 _“Hail Satan,”_ he tried to say. What actually emerged was a choked-off squeak that went, _“Hey-ee.”_

 _“What?”_ hissed Mrs. Weston. “Speak up!”

James bolted up out of his seat (which was trickier than he’d thought, because he had to swing his long gangly legs over the picnic bench and kick Peter’s rear in the process), stood tall, and took a deep breath.

“Hail Satan,” he croaked, and then, to thunderous applause, he and Peter took off fleeing toward the meadows. James didn’t look back, but he could hear his mother screaming and chasing after them. He grinned and ran faster alongside Peter, laughter tearing from his lungs in the wind.

They sprinted and sailed along the Meadows trail until James slowed to a walk because of a stitch in his side. By now they had left Mrs. Weston and the picnic far behind, far enough that they could safely assume they were alone.

Peter didn’t seem half as exhausted as James. “You’re tired already?”

“I hate running,” wheezed James, panting.

“I thought you liked sports.”

“That’s different!”

His burning legs continued to drag him forward for several dozen yards until his breathing steadied and his heartbeat slowed, and the pounding in his ears died away. Only then was he able to look around, and register that they’d stumbled into a breath-taking landscape.

“Wow-wee,” he exclaimed. “Look at all that.”

Sprawling beyond the dusty trail was the vast grassy sea of Shenandoah’s Big Meadows, emerald green and bursting with white and gold dandelions in full bloom under the early-summer sunlight. Ripping softly, stroked by the tender breeze, the meadows sloped gently up and down into the distance where they were framed on all four horizons by misty jade ridgelines. Brilliant butterflies and fuzzy bumblebees dabbled leisurely between endless yellow blossoms. The crisp, quiet air was stirred only by the sighs of the wind amidst rustling grasses, and the calls of blackbirds from the yawning blue sky.

“It sure is nice,” murmured Peter.

Together, as if joined in thought, the two boys abandoned the trail and drifted onto the flower-strewn grass, taking in the splendor of the Meadows with wide eyes and parted lips. Their shoes trod lightly on the greenery beneath.

The mood of reverent silence was eventually broken when Peter glanced over his shoulder and said nervously, “Think she’ll catch up?”

“Nah,” James answered. His mother wouldn’t deign to run so far. “She’ll wait ‘till we get home to swat me and make me sleep in the paint shed overnight for your stupid dare. And it’s your turn, by the way!”

He stooped down and plucked a ripe dandelion, then offered it to Peter like a fuzzy white lollipop. “This. Dare ya to lick it.”

Peter took the dandelion and pinched it apprehensively in his fingers. They met each other’s eyes, and both laughed a little bit. Then Peter clamped his whole mouth around the puff of seeds, and James burst into laughter when the blond boy coughed and spat and made _‘ptoo’_ noises to get the seeds off his tongue. Eventually Peter went to his knees, still spitting out seeds and choking back laughter. James got down and gently pat him until Peter wiped his mouth on his sleeve and flopped onto his back, lying spread-eagled in the grass and catching his breath.

[INSERT CHASE SCENE]

James laid down next to him. Peter watched the clouds with eyes as blue as the sky above, while James, with his head turned, watched only Peter. Peter, with his gentle good-looks and fluffy blond hair, seemed more lovely than all the skies and meadows and mountains of the Shenandoah valley.

James longed to tell Peter somehow; with words, with a squeeze of his hand, with a brush of their fingertips. But how could he? He was male, and Peter was male too, which made it wrong. All he could do was keep his thoughts private and give thanks to God that he’d been fortunate enough to meet this boy at all.

It was enough that Peter was his friend, and pointless to want what could not be had.

\---

“James?”

“Mm?”

“It’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

“We only do dares.”

“Then I dare you to do a truth.”

“Is it about the Eiffel Tower?”

“Will you do it or not?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

James gave Peter a look, which Peter did not return. “Nope. Why? You have one?”

“No…”

“No?” said James as casually as possible, thought he felt quite pleased by the answer.

“No. I think girls are gross.”

James laughed. “What? ‘Girls are gross?’ How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” said Peter, “and you’re sixteen, right?”

“I turned seventeen on the twenty-first.”

Peter suddenly shifted on his side, looking intently at James. “Your birthday was last Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 _He’s asking me about my birthday,_ thought James happily. _He cares about me!_ “Sorry,” he said aloud. “I didn’t do anything for my birthday. Mother never makes it much of a big deal, you know.”

“Oh,” said Peter flatly. After a pause, he sat up. “Maybe we should get a move on. They’ll come looking for us.”

Above them, a sizeable question-mark-shaped cloud floated by and briefly eclipsed the sun, casting them in the shade. James closed his eyes and drew a deep, comfortable breath. He could smell grass, and earth, and the faint scent of Peter’s hair. He folded his hands over his belly, brushing his neck-tie to the wayside. Through his eyelids he saw a red blur as the sun shined through the clouds again, while renewed warmth fell upon his face and body.

“Let’s stay,” he murmured. “Just a little longer.”

In the ruby-red darkness of his closed eyes, James imagined himself ruffling Peter’s fluffy blond hair, hugging him tightly in his arms, tracing a finger down his nose and over his pink lips. It was all just fantasy, of course, and therefore entirely private and inconsequential, so James allowed himself to dream away. At least he could have that much, if not the real thing.

He felt Peter rustle in the grass. Then a cool shadow eclipsed his face.

James opened his eyes, blinked, and realized Peter was kneeling over him. Straddling him.

Suddenly flooded with embarrassment, James flinched away from beneath Peter—who looked shocked—and scrambled to his feet. He was acutely aware of his shame.

“What were you doing?!” he yelled, heat rising in his cheeks. He swallowed and furiously dusted off his clothes. Did Peter know his secrets? Had he seen something? _“What was that for?!”_

Peter watched him with wide blue eyes. “I— I thought —”

“You thought what?!”

Peter abruptly stood up.

“I— wait, James, look —”

Peter pointed into the distance. James spun around, and his anger turned to fear when he saw Guppy and Ruth’s father, Mr. John Evans, to whom Peter had given the ugly prince—approaching along the rail. Why was Mr. Evans here with Guppy? Was James in even more trouble?

“JAMES!” hollered Guppy. “PICNIC’S OVER! MOTHER SENT US TO GET YOU!”

James and Peter went back toward the trail, not looking at each other.

“What were you boys doing?” said Mr. Evans. He sounded too suspicious for comfort. James swallowed.

“Nothing,” he answered. “Just playing ‘Truth or Dare,’ sir.”

“’Truth or Dare,’ hm,” echoed Mr. Evans.

“’Truth or Dare!’” chortled Guppy. “Me and James do that all the time! Except we only do the dares because truths are too boring.” And then Guppy turned and said to Peter, “You know, James actually danced with you on May Day just ‘cause I dared him! We laughed about it for days!”

“Oh,” Peter mumbled. His eyes had turned slate blue.

It was a quiet car ride back home.

\---


End file.
